


Definetly, in No Way, Sick

by MaskoftheRay



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce and Clark are best friends... and so is Diana, Bruce has a terrible flu. Seriously, Crack?, Flu is the worst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Other, Sickfic, being sick in general, maybe crack?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-06-07 21:37:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15228393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: Bruce gets the flu and is too tired to make the trip to a league meeting... mostly because Alfred said no. So, the league comes to him.





	1. I'm Not Sick!

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own any of these characters, DC Comics does. I think the absolute worst feeling is the flu-- worse than a really bad cold even. Poor Bruce

The moment he woke up that morning, he knew. Bruce swallowed, hating the sore, scratchy feeling in his throat. He sniffled, growling at the sound. He knew if he tried to talk, that he’d sound sick… because he was sick. Damn it, he was sick. He could feel the fever that was making his head pound and made his eyes feel like jelly. He could feel the way his mouth was dry, his scratchy throat, runny nose, stuffed up chest. He knew, but he didn’t like it. Slowly he rose from bed and added: stiff, achy muscles to his growing list of symptoms. It looked like he had the flu. Great. If Alfred caught him, the Batman would be out of commission for at least two or three days. Bruce sighed, and sneezed. 

“Bless you, Master Bruce. We wouldn’t be getting sick now, would we?” inquired the all-knowing voice of a certain English butler. 

“No, Alfrebd, I’b bnot, sicb,” he growled. 

“Right, Master Bruce. I’ll have two flu pills ready with your breakfast downstairs,” said Alfred. Bruce sighed, then coughed. 

“Thanbs,” He said. 

Later that day, Bruce sniffed for probably the thousandth time and reached for another tissue. He growled, annoyed, and eyed the alarmingly high pile of tissues in his office’s trashcan. Much as he would have loved to stay at home and save his strength for something more useful, such as patrolling Gotham, or the Justice League Founder’s meeting he had that night, he had come into the office because he had a meeting. Suddenly, his phone rang. “Hellbo?” he said, mentally cursing the sound of his own voice. 

“Mr. Wayne, your three-p.m. appointment is here,” said his secretary, Janice. 

“Okbay, Jannice, send themb ub, thanbs,” he said, hanging up. He sniffed again. Then, when he heard someone approaching his office door, he composed himself; time for ‘Brucie Wayne’ to make an appearance. A knock on his door prompted him to say, “Comb in.” 

The reporter, someone from the Gotham Star, if he wasn’t mistaken, entered the room. He rose and gestured to the seat across from him, trying to be as charming as possible, despite his condition. “Hello, Mr. Wayne. I’m Cynthia Ross, from the Gotham Star. I’m here for that interview about your recent donation to Gotham Hospital’s Children’s Ward,” she said, as she sat. Bruce smiled as charmingly as possible, while being sick. 

“Oh, yes, I remember bnow. It’s a good thing I habe subch a goob secretary, I’b albost fobotten… seeing as I’b a bit under the weather. Nice bo meet bou, Cynbhia. Bou cab cabll be Bruce,” he said, throwing in a wink. Sure enough, the reporter seemed to be buying into the famous ‘Wayne charm,’ even muted as it was today. 

“We can postpone if you need to, Bruce,” the reporter offered. 

Bruce shook his head, ignoring the sharp pain that action brought. He forced himself to smile and protest her offer, “No, ib’s fibe. I’be had worse. Now, whab bas bour first quesbon?” 

An hour later the interview, mercifully, ended. Bruce was glad because he honestly wasn’t sure how much longer he’d have been able to hold onto his ‘Brucie Wayne’ act. Toward the very end he could feel his act slipping—there were only so many hours in a day that he could stand to act vapid and senseless usually, and today his patience was worn thin. So, it was with relief that he showed the reporter out of his office. 

With a tired groan, he blew his nose for the umpteenth time and checked his watch. It was rather early to be leaving the office, but Bruce hardly felt that many people would call him on it, or rather, dare to. Gotham’s billionaire playboy didn’t actually run Wayne Enterprises, after all, but was just a pretty face, good as a spokesperson, he thought cynically. “Janbice? I’b boing homb. Yeb, please ball Albred bor be. Thanbs,” he said, leaning back in his chair. God, he was tired. Bruce glanced at his watch, thinking about the other business he had tonight. Hopefully he’d feel better with a few hours of sleep, food, and more meds before the Founder’s meeting. 

Half an hour later, Bruce took the executive’s elevator down to the parking garage, wiping the sweat from his brow as he went. He really did feel awful. He saw the car waiting and collapsed in the back. “Master Bruce, are you quite all right?” Alfred asked, sending him a look through the mirror. “I’b fibe, Alfbed, just tibed. Leb’s go homb,” he said, a bit of the bat growl creeping into his voice. Alfred merely arched one eyebrow at his statement. Bruce crossed his arms, trying not to appear as pitiful as he felt... 

As the car pulled to a stop outside Wayne Manor, Bruce jerked awake, blinking. He frowned. “I must insist you go upstairs and rest, sir. If you are sick enough to be falling asleep on the way home, you are entirely too sick for your nightly activities,” Alfred said, giving his foster son a look. Bruce, looked feverish with glassy eyes, rosy cheeks, and a red nose. 

“I habe the founber’s meebing later, I can’t stay hebe,” Bruce insisted, half trying to convince himself, it would look worse to simply not show up for the meeting than to show up sick. Let someone call him on it, he dared them. 

Alfred gave him a look and with a tone of disapproval that only he could muster, said, “Very well, sir. But, I insist that you achieve a few hours rest, minimum. Otherwise, you shall find yourself incapacitated for eight hours.” Bruce sighed. There was no winning against Alfred; from past experiences, Bruce knew that if the butler thought he was being unreasonable concerning his well-being, he wasn’t above slipping something into the Batman’s breakfast to induce rest. 

“Fibe,” he gritted out. Alfred parked the car and Bruce got out, walking up the stairs to his bedroom tiredly. He stripped out of his suit and took a long, hot shower. Then he changed into his most comfortable pajamas and got into bed, making sure to set his alarm with enough time for him to suit up for the meeting. 

“I took the liberty of making you soup, sir,” Alfred said, setting the tray down on the table besides Bruce. Bruce nodded his appreciation and ate. After he was done, Alfred took away the dishes and brought him some flu medicine, tissues, and a glass of water. Bruce swallowed the pills and water greedily and collapsed in bed. Finally comfortable, he sighed, eyes closing. 

A few hours later, he awoke to the beeping of his alarm. Bruce groaned groggily and sat up. For a minute, he forgot what the alarm was for, then remembered: the founder’s meeting. Just as he was about to swing his legs out of bed, Alfred came bustling into the room. “Where do you think you are going, Master Bruce?” he asked. 

“I habe that meeting with the Justice Leabue,” Bruce insisted. “Absolutely not, sir! You are far too sick to be getting out of bed, let alone galivanting off to a space station!—” 

“But, Alfbed, I dibn’t bell theb I wasn’t combing! It’s unbrofessional,” Bruce tried his best to growl. Alfred held up a hand for silence, and Bruce, even after all these years, even with his identity as the Batman, knew not to interrupt an Alfred Lecture. 

“As I was saying, sir, you are too sick to be going out as your fearsome counterpart. So, I invited your colleagues here. They should be arriving shortly. You are to stay here, in bed, and rest. Ideally, you should be sleeping, but, seeing as you are too stubborn, I will settle for bedrest,” his butler insisted firmly. Bruce sighed, there really was no arguing with his butler when he got like that. He would always lose. Alfred took his silence as concession and nodded, heading off somewhere. He returned with a tray that contained water, orange juice, more tissues, and two more flu pills. 

“Thanb bou, Alfbed,” Bruce said sulkily. 

“You are welcome, sir,” Alfred said, retreating downstairs, no doubt to wait for Bruce’s… guests.


	2. I'm Sick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The meeting, and the aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: I do not own any of these characters, DC Comics does.

A few minutes later, Alfred announced, “The founders of the Justice League have arrived, Master Bruce. I am sending them in.” Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb. He absolutely hated seeming weak, and he also hated these long, often pointless meetings. He also did not enjoy sharing his home— his fortress— with his colleagues. It made him uncomfortable to have his two separate lives, usually so neatly separated, combined in this messy, awkward way. 

The first to enter was the Flash, who looked excited. The second was Wonder Woman, followed by Superman, Martian Manhunter, Green Lantern, and Hawkgirl. Flash looked surprised to see not the bat, nor ‘Bruce Wayne,’ but Bruce sitting in bed. Diana and Clark looked concerned, and the rest neutral. “So, this is why we changed locations,” Flash said, coming up to Bruce, “You look terrible!” Bruce sniffed, glowering at Barry. 

“Beat obserbation, Barry. Boy shoulb do by job,” Bruce growled. 

“Are you sure you’re ok to have the meeting? We could postpone it, if you wanted…” Diana insisted, giving him a once over. Bruce huffed. 

“I’b fibe, Biana. We bight ab bell habe the meebinb since you’be here,” he said. Just then, Alfred came into the room, carrying mugs of tea for everyone, including Bruce. 

Clark sat in the leather chair next to Bruce’s bed, holding the mug of tea awkwardly while Alfred said, “If there is anything else you may need, I shall be down in the study. Master Bruce, I expect you to stay in bed and not exert yourself, and I shall have one of your colleagues inform me if you don’t comply.” With that, he left the room. Bruce tried not to look like a pouting child but feared that he failed when he saw even the Martian Manhunter smiling at his expense. He turned away from his colleagues and fluffed up his pillows a little more before sitting up straighter in bed, even though it made his chest ache. 

As the meeting progressed, Bruce slowly sipped his tea, relishing in its warmth and the way it soothed his aching throat. He also munched on his apple sliced, despite how silly it made him feel. He needed calories to fight this sickness, not to mention that his last meal had been hours ago. Despite the flu medicine, he could feel his fever climbing again and his nose started to drip. When sweat started to bead on his forehead, he casually removed a few layers of blankets. He shifted over slightly in his bed to another, cooler patch of mattress. 

A question from Superman made him snap back to attention. “Bruce, what do you think about upgrading the storage on the main computers?” he asked. Bruce sighed, trying— and failing— to suppress a sudden sneeze. 

“I bink it’s a goob ibea, but, harb to bo; those abe state of the abt albeady… sombobe will habe to go brough all the files,” he contemplated. He swallowed, his mouth seeming to have turned into a desert again. He reached for his glass of water, only to find it was almost empty. With a pang of regret, he sipped the last remnants, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to get more water until his company had left. The Batman would not ask for someone to fetch him water, no matter how sick he got. 

The chills returned, and Bruce pulled up his previously discarded blankets, shivering slightly. Great, it looked like he’d be getting worse before he got better. With a start, he realized that Diana had gotten up and left without his noticing. He blinked, berating himself for his lack of attention. Silently, Wonder Woman reappeared… carrying a full glass of water. Bruce frowned, hating that she’d noticed his weakness. But, at the same time, a small part of him was glad that she cared. She set it down silently by his side and returned to her seat, offering a comment on the current topic. Bruce waited a few agonizing minutes before picking up the glass. 

At some point, Bruce gave up on offering any coherent comments or thoughts into the conversation and settled for appearing to pay attention. Though he didn’t have a watch, he estimated that the meeting had to be almost over. He promised himself that he would go to bed the moment the meeting ended, when the other members of the Justice League were gone, if he looked like he cared about this meeting. He didn’t want anyone to think he was too sick to be involved in important business; it could set a bad precedent. But despite his mental fortitude, his body was betraying him. He found his eyelids growing heavy and his body cold and achy, craving to bury under the warm blankets and not emerge for a long time. Finally, as the Flash was talking about something— a much needed update to the kitchen (a coffee machine?)— the inevitable happened. After hours of pushing his body to the limits, it gave out. Bruce’s eyelids snapped shut and his head lay back against the pillows. 

At first, no one noticed, but then, Shayera frowned, pausing in the middle of her statement, and looked at the bed. Everyone followed her gaze and came to the same conclusion. Batman had fallen asleep. There was silence in the room, as everyone looked at the other members of the league, surprised. There was no protocol for this, for a reminder of Batman’s … humanity. Bruce didn’t often show any weakness, so even seeing him like this had been a shock to the system of all the members. But to have him fall asleep during the meeting? That was incomprehensible. So, they simply decided to finish up the meeting, with Bruce’s snores (he was very stuffed up) acting as sort of a background noise. Then, meeting concluded, they crept silently from Bruce’s room. Diana and Clark were the last to go. Diana refilled Bruce’s glass of water again and turned out the lights. Clark went downstairs to find Alfred and told him, “Bruce is asleep, finally. I think he’s got a pretty high temperature. Let me know how he’s doing later, will you?” 

Alfred replied, “I certainly will, Master Clark. But, rest assured, he is well cared for. I am sure the Dark Knight will be up and about terrorizing Gotham’s criminals within the week.” 

Clark smiled and chuckled, saying, “I believe you.” Then he, and Diana, left. 

A weeks later, Bruce was indeed, as Alfred had said, active again, terrorizing Gotham’s underbelly. Clark, along with the other founding members, checked their league emails and were surprised to see reminders sent by Bruce about the next founder’s meeting… which they had already had. “Maybe he thought of something else he didn’t get to say last time?” Green Lantern guessed. 

“He probably wants to threaten us, on pain of death, not to tell anyone we saw him sick,” Hawkgirl mused, glancing at Flash, who shrugged, as if to say, ‘don’t look at me.’ Clark and Diana looked at each other, knowing Bruce the best. They guessed something much closer to the truth. 

“I’ll talk to him,” Clark clarified. 

“Ok,” Wonder Woman said, shrugging. Later that night, Clark flew to the bat cave to find its occupant busily typing something on the massive computer. 

“Bruce,” he said. He received a grunt in reply, but the typing didn’t stop. He sighed, typical bat. “I need to talk to you about the founder’s meeting. We—” 

Suddenly Clark was interrupted, by the Bat, who said, “Meetings are meetings, Superman. We can’t postpone one just because you’re ‘busy.’” Clark gritted his teeth and summoned all his mid-west politeness. 

“No, it’s not that, Bruce… you see, we had the meeting already. When you had the flu? Alfred invited us here and we had it while you were in bed. You… you fell asleep at the end and we finished the meeting without you,” he admitted. The sound of typing stopped suddenly. Superman recognized a spike in his friend’s heartbeat. Batman was surprised. 

“Oh,” he grunted, “so that wasn’t a fever dream. Fantastic.” Clark tried— and failed— to suppress a laugh. 

“You actually thought you imagined all of us coming to your house and having a meeting? Wow, Bruce. That’s… that’s something else,” he chortled. 

Bruce was quiet for a minute, then said grudgingly, “I guess so.”


End file.
